Page 14 of Forged in Fire (Dragonblood Dynasty #5)

I ris

Consciousness returns like a switch flipping—one moment nothing, the next complete awareness. No grogginess, no confusion about where I am. Just the immediate, clinical assessment that I’m tied up, in unfamiliar territory, and my captor’s scent still clings to the air around me.

Leather. Gunpowder. Something deeper underneath that makes my pulse quicken against my will—like banked coals and winter nights.

I don’t move. Not yet. My eyes adjust to the dim lighting—a single lamp casting amber pools across sparse furnishings, fireplace crackling somewhere to my right.

The restraints around my wrists and ankles feel substantial.

Heavy. Warm metal that hums faintly against my skin with a resonance I recognize.

Dragon-forged. Naturally.

The cabin around me screams temporary—functional furniture, no personal touches, high-tech security equipment blinking in the corner like electronic eyes. Motion sensors, communication gear, things that transform what should be a rustic mountain retreat into a professional safe house.

My shadows respond to the frustration building in my chest, testing the edges of my bonds, curling around my wrists. They encounter resistance immediately—not just the physical restraints, but something else. A subtle vibration in the air that makes my power recoil instinctively.

Wards. Specifically tuned to dragon magic.

Well, shit.

Whoever took me knew exactly how to deal with power like mine.

“Awake.” It’s his voice, stating fact rather than asking a question.

I turn my head toward the sound. He’s standing by the window, silhouette dark against the glass, watching the forest beyond.

Wind moves through the trees outside, a lonely sound that emphasizes just how isolated we are.

When he shifts slightly, firelight catches the hard line of his jaw, the controlled tension in his shoulders.

Something low in my belly responds to that controlled power before I can stop it.

Don’t be nuts, Iris.

I’m bound and helpless with a man who’s clearly a killer.

“I prefer ‘alert,’” I correct, keeping my voice level despite the unwelcome heat creeping up my neck. “Where am I?”

“Safe.”

The word would be laughable if it weren’t so infuriating. “Safe?” I snort. “Tied up, God knows where, by the man who tried to kill my brother. Your definition needs serious work.”

He turns from the window, and I get my first clear look at him since regaining consciousness.

Tall, lean, carrying himself with that predatory stillness that should terrify me.

Dark hair, sharp features, and eyes that reveal nothing while seeming to see everything.

The kind of man who measures words like ammunition and treats silence like a weapon.

The kind of man who makes my shadows reach toward him despite every logical reason they shouldn’t.

Stop it, dammit!

“I prevented your execution,” he says, and something in his tone suggests the words surprised him as much as they do me.

“Execution? I was with my brother!” My shadows flicker despite the restraints, power responding to the anger building in my chest.

“Who was quite willing to let you die,” he says with brutal honesty.

The words feel like they crush my chest. I want to deny them, to rage at him for even suggesting such a thing.

But the memory of those final moments plays on repeat—Kieran’s cold voice, the way those operatives emerged from cover like they’d been waiting, the guards who took orders from him instead of restraining him.

Sorry, Iris.

“What do you want with me?” I ask instead, because that truth is too raw to touch. “Why did you take me?”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. Just studies me with uncomfortable intensity. His eyes are different in the firelight—arctic blue circled by something darker—and when they meet mine, something electric arcs between us.

My breath catches involuntarily.

“You weren’t part of the plan,” he says finally, voice rougher than before.

“Then why am I here?”

The question seems more like a challenge. I watch him weigh his response, see the moment when he decides to give me nothing useful. But there’s tension in the way he holds himself, like a man fighting an internal war.

“It’s complicated.”

“Uncomplicate it.” Heat builds behind my eyes—not dragon fire, but something closer to fury. “You try to kill my brother, then abduct me, tie me up in the middle of nowhere, and now you’re playing mysterious? I’ve had enough games for one night.”

He moves away from the window, each step controlled and deliberate. But I catch the way his eyes track over me—not leering, but aware. Definitely aware.

When he’s close enough that I can smell that scent again—smoke and something dangerous—my shadows strain toward him like they recognize something in his darkness.

“Your brother led you into a trap,” he says. “Six armed operatives. You walked in trusting him completely.”

“It was a misunderstanding.” But even as I say it, I know how hollow it sounds. The rational part of my brain—the part that’s kept me alive—won’t let me ignore the evidence.

“Was it?” There’s no satisfaction in his voice, just harsh honesty. “Think about how he handed you over.”

The horrible thing is, I can’t stop thinking about it. About the way Kieran had looked at me in those final moments—apologetic but determined. Like he’d already made his choice, and it wasn’t me.

“He wasn’t himself,” I whisper, more to myself than to him. “Something happened to him. They did something—”

“I don’t have those answers,” he says, settling into a chair across from me.

Close enough that I can see the tension wired through his frame, the way his hand rests near a concealed weapon.

But also close enough that I notice other things—the way firelight plays across his features, the unconscious grace in his movements.

Close enough that my power responds to his presence like metal drawn to a magnet.

“Who hired you?” I demand, fighting to ignore the unwelcome sensation. “Someone wanted my brother dead. I need to know why.”

“That’s confidential.”

“Screw your confidentiality!” I spit the words out. “My brother’s life is at stake.”

“Your brother betrayed you,” he says with devastating simplicity. “Perhaps you should be asking different questions.”

Heat floods my face—anger and something else I don’t want to acknowledge. “You don’t know anything about us.”

“I know what I saw.” His voice remains maddeningly calm. “I know you walked into that situation trusting him completely. And I know if I hadn’t been there, you’d be dead.”

The enormity of that statement settles over me like a shroud. Part of me wants to deny it, to insist that Kieran would never hurt me. But the evidence won’t be ignored.

A phone rings somewhere in the cabin, electronic and insistent. His expression shifts, becomes even more guarded.

“Don’t move,” he says, like I have any choice in the matter.

He disappears into another room, but dragon hearing is excellent, and these mountain walls carry sound. His voice, low and professional, drifts back to me.

“Barlowe… situation contained… tactical complications…”

I use the opportunity to test my restraints more aggressively. My shadows pour toward the locks, seeking any weakness in the dragon-forged metal. The wards push back immediately—like trying to force opposing magnets together—but I keep trying.

If I can manipulate my shadows into the locking mechanism, maybe I can work the tumblers. The metal is warm against my skin, humming with power, but there has to be a way—

“No.” His voice carries from the other room, tone shifting to something sharper. “That wasn’t the arrangement.”

I stop breathing, straining to hear more.

“I understand she’s a security risk…”

She. He’s talking about me.

My shadows writhe against the restraints with new urgency, testing every angle, every possible weakness. The wards burn against my power, but I push harder, desperation overriding caution.

“A permanent solution isn’t necessary if we—” His voice cuts off. Then, flat and cold: “I see. Understood.”

The silence that follows feels ominous. Final.

When he returns, his expression is carved from granite. Whatever conversation he just had sealed something—my fate, most likely.

“Bad news?” I ask, proud of how steady my voice sounds despite the terror climbing my throat.

“Depends on your perspective.”

“From my perspective, I’d say most news qualifies as bad right now.” I shift position, testing the restraints again. “Who was that?”

“My handler.”

At least he’s being honest. “And let me guess—they’re not happy about the mission failure.”

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “Among other things.”

“Other things like me.”

He doesn’t deny it.

“So what now?” I force the question past the fear threatening to steal my breath. “You got orders to eliminate the complication?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just stares at me with those strange eyes, and I realize I’m looking at a man being torn apart by conflicting loyalties.

“They expect compliance,” he says finally.

“But you’re not complying.” It’s not a question. Something in his posture, in the way he’s avoiding direct answers, tells me he’s fighting this.

“I disobeyed direct orders in order to save your life,” he admits, and the honesty in it shakes me. “That has consequences.”

“Why?” The question slips out before I can stop it. “Why risk everything for someone you don’t even know?”

He’s quiet for so long, I think he won’t answer. When he does, the words sound like they’re being dragged out of him.

“I don’t know.”

There’s something in his voice I can’t identify. Something that makes my shadows reach toward him despite the wards, like they recognize something in his darkness.

“You could let me go,” I say suddenly, testing a different approach. “Tell them you eliminated the problem.”

“It doesn’t work that way.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ve seen me. Know my methods. That makes you a permanent liability.”

The clinical way he says it should terrify me, but what I see in his eyes isn’t cold calculation. It’s conflict.

“What if I disappeared?” I press. “Vanished completely. Changed my name, left the continent. It would be like this never happened.” I’m improvising on the fly, but my options feel nonexistent right now.

“They’d find you, eventually.” His tone is matter-of-fact. “They always do.”

“Then what’s the solution? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like we’re both screwed.”

Something flickers across his features—surprise, maybe, at my directness.

His phone buzzes. A text this time. I watch his face change as he reads it, see his jaw clench with what looks like genuine anger.

“What now?”

He looks up at me, and for the first time since I’ve been conscious, I see something like uncertainty in his eyes.

“Nothing.”

I study his expression, watch how his hand moves toward the weapon at his hip—not threatening, just unconscious movement. Like he’s trying to convince himself of something.

“Are you going to kill me?” I’m surprised at how steady the question sounds.

He stares at me for a long moment, and I watch him war with himself. Duty versus instinct. Orders versus something else entirely.

“I don’t know,” he says finally, and the rough honesty in his voice tells me more than any lie could.

“I don’t think you can,” I whisper, praying I’m reading him right.

Outside, wind picks up, rattling the windows like something trying to get in. Or maybe something trying to get out. My shadows pull against the restraints, still seeking escape. Still reaching toward him.

Still recognizing something I can’t even begin to understand.

His hand hovers over his weapon, and I see the exact moment when duty wars with something deeper. Something that makes him hesitate when he should be acting.

Something that might just save my life.

If I’m lucky.

If I’m right about what I see in his eyes when he looks at me.

If the connection I feel building between us is real and not just wishful thinking born of desperation.

I close my eyes and wait for him to decide which part of himself wins.